


many happy returns

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [47]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7530658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The game against the Panthers is not the ideal birthday game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	many happy returns

On his birthday, David wakes up before his alarm, which is unusual. It’s explained by the missed call on his phone from Kiro, timestamped a minute before. He’s left a message, and David listens as he shuffles to the bathroom, quickly pulling it away from his ear when he finds out it’s Kiro singing Happy Birthday, loud and off-key.

_That was terrible_ , David texts him before getting in the shower. He comes out to find Kiro sent him a slew of sad faces before a _I will practice all day! Panthers will understand._ , and David winces at the thought. 

He’s drinking tea in front of the toaster when Kiro calls again. “Don’t sing,” David says when he picks up the phone.

“You don’t like my singing?” Kiro asks. He sounds upset on the surface, but David doesn’t think he’s imagining the thread of amusement he hears under it. Kiro knows exactly what he’s good at and what he’s bad at, and David is almost positive he knows he’s a terrible singer.

“No,” David says firmly.

“You hurt my feelings,” Kiro says, just sounding amused now.

“Too bad,” David says.

“Someone is grumpy in the morning,” Kiro says, and hums it at him, not as loud but still off-key, because David forgot you have to be very specific or Kiro will get around any directions you give. Vladislav has gotten extremely proficient at phrasing instructions in the most precise manner possible.

“Thank you,” David says flatly.

“You are very welcome, my friend,” Kiro says, and even though it was horrible and leaves the song running in a loop in his head afterwards, David finds himself smiling down at the stove as he makes himself an omelette. He packed for the trip to Florida the night before, but on his way out the door he hesitates, adds a tie Dave bought him as a birthday present a few years back. It’s technically Islanders colours, but it’s a burnt orange that’s more — distinguished than orange usually is, and it never hurts to try to make your own luck, and birthday luck is apparently a thing. Not that David really believes in luck, but. It’s responsible to pack an extra tie.

David’s not unused to travelling on his birthday, and not unused to his birthday not being acknowledged until a spate of questions by reporters who wield the date like a weapon, should a game fall on it. There are always the questions about scoring a birthday goal, as if David doesn’t give 100% unless it’s his birthday, as if any player doesn’t work himself to the bone every game. It’s all he could do not to sneer, every time the question came up, and to add insult to injury, it’d usually result in a rush of teammates wishing him happy birthday as the day was dragging to a close.

He knows this year will be better, just because Kiro will stubbornly insist on making it good, and he knows David well enough not to genuinely believe he’d enjoy a club. At least, David hopes he does. In the meantime, he doesn’t mind his birthday flying under the radar.

On the plane Robbie sits beside him before Oleg can take his customary seat — admittedly not as customary as it was a few months ago, since he sits with Salonen half the time, and David with Robbie — and places a box in his lap.

“What’s this?” David asks.

“Birthday,” Robbie says.

“Oh,” David says. “Thank you.”

“Now you open it, Chaps,” Robbie says impatiently, and David obediently opens the box to find the largest cupcake he’s ever seen.

“What is that,” David says.

“It’s a cupcake,” Robbie says. “You looked like a chocolate man, so it is, in fact, a chocolate cupcake.”

“It’s implied in the name that cupcakes are the size of a _cup_ ,” David points out.

“This is smaller than the Stanley Cup?” Robbie says, then snickers.

“You’re very pleased with yourself right now, aren’t you, Lombardi,” Quincy says, walking past their seats, then without turning, “Happy birthday, Blondie.”

“I really am,” Robbie calls at Quincy’s retreating back. “Anyway, eat, Chaps.”

“It’s morning,” David says.

“Birthday rules,” Robbie says. “You gotta eat it.”

“I can’t eat this whole thing,” David says. 

“You absolutely could without getting within spitting distance of your allotted calories, don’t front,” Robbie says.

“They’re empty calories,” David mutters. “And refined sugar.”

“ _Birthday_ calories,” Robbie says. “ _Birthday_ sugar.”

It feels extremely wrong to eat the cupcake, both because it’s still morning and because it’s huge. “You don’t want any?” David asks Robbie after a couple bites.

“Birthday calories,” Robbie repeats. “Eat all of ‘em.” He watches David with narrowed eyes until he finishes. 

“That was less of a gift and more of a punishment for being born,” Matthews says, leaning across the aisle. “Remind me not to tell you my birthday.”

“It’s May seventh, dickwad,” Robbie says promptly. “And just for that, I am buying you _two_ cupcakes.”

“Well, fuck,” Matthews says.

“Yeah,” Robbie says. “Don’t doubt my devotion to you, Matty.”

“That was literally the sweetest threat I have ever heard,” Crane says from under his eye mask. “Please shut the fuck up now.”

Robbie aims a salute at Crane, even though he can’t see it, turns to David.

“Breaking Bad so we don’t get murdered by our goalie?” he murmurs.

“Sure,” David murmurs back, and they watch until Crane takes the mask off and pulls them into a game of Asshole, which David hates because he loses every time.

“Get a better poker face,” Matthews says, when David ends up the Asshole once again. “For our sake as much as yours.”

Robbie’s President, which is usually the case. “Happy birthday again, mon ami,” he says, dragging the m’s out. “You can be President next round, I’ll take Asshole.”

“Cheater,” Crane exclaims, and Matthews boos, but when Matthews deals he gives David Robbie’s hand and doesn’t let David hand the cards to Robbie.

“We’ll throw some pity your way for your birthday,” Matthews says. “Plus, anything to not have an American President again.”

“What, we renaming this shit Prime Minister for you sad sack canucks?” Robbie asks.

“For a fucking start,” Crane says, and then wipes the floor with everyone and declares himself Prime Minister.

“Shouldn’t have given him ideas,” Robbie mutters when they’re getting off the plane. “Never give a goalie ideas, the fuck you thinking, Roberto?”

“You won every other hand,” David says.

“Yeah, but it just takes one before the monarchy gets its claws in you,” Robbie says, and David’s snort gets him on a roll about tea taxation, which he talks about the entire way to the hotel, with other Caps frequently chiming in, American and non-American alike.

*

The game against the Panthers is not the ideal birthday game.

David doesn’t know what sort of game he’d want for his birthday. Likely the same he’d want any other day: clean play, skilled opposition, balanced refereeing, a clear sense of accomplishment when you win. 

David doesn’t think he’s ever experienced that against the Panthers. They’re lucky if they get one of them, and tonight the refereeing’s good, as if to make up for bad play, poor ice conditions, and a sparsely filled arena, populated with as many Capitals jerseys as Panthers ones. 

Washington wins it, but it isn’t a satisfying win. Well, it’s satisfying inasmuch as it’s a win, but it was an uneven game against an uneven opponent, and they’re not exactly patting themselves on the back after it, because they didn’t play all that well, and a better opponent may have made them face those errors.

It seems like Kiro has Washington’s number, or at least bursts of luck against them specifically, because he gets another point. Soon after that Jake notches a goal David didn’t get back in time for. He wasn’t covering Jake — that was Salonen — but it’s a defensive failure on his part nonetheless.

“Hey Chaps,” Robbie says. “You know we won 4-2, right?”

“Sure,” David says.

“Okay,” Robbie says. “Just checking. Also maybe you should talk to your adoring audience about your game winning goal, because they’re starting to look desperate for your attention.”

“Oh,” David says. “Right.”

“It’s his birthday,” Robbie yells at the media before they descend, and David just considers himself lucky that no one decided that shoving a pie tin full of shaving cream in his face would be hilarious even after it’s been done a thousand times. He probably has Oleg to thank for that, because he doesn’t really think the Capitals are too mature for it, especially since they did it to Salonen three weeks ago.

He escapes after the standard questions, including the inevitable one about whether he was happy about his ‘birthday goal’. Thankfully there isn’t a flood of guys wishing him happy birthday this time, since most of them already have. David guesses Robbie wasn’t particularly quiet about it. 

Oleg isn’t one of the guys who’s wished him a happy birthday, but David hasn’t seen much of Oleg today. He’s been quiet all day, testy, and David’s given him his space, remembering that it’s Christmas and he’s away from his family, and for most people that’s upsetting. Still, when Robbie yells “Volkov’s dying of thirst out there, he wanted you to know!”, David nudges Oleg’s elbow with his own.

“Did you want to come to—” David starts.

“Go be young and loud somewhere else,” Oleg says with a scowl, then, “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” David says. “I won’t be loud.”

“Volkov and Lombardi?” Oleg asks pointedly.

“Fair enough,” David says. “Um. Wish your family Merry Christmas for me.”

Oleg eyes him.

“Tomorrow I mean,” David says quickly. “Obviously not tonight, but—”

“I will,” Oleg says, thankfully cutting him off. “Go have fun with loud boys. Don’t worry too much about curfew.”

“I—” David says. 

“It is your birthday, no practice or game tomorrow,” Oleg says. “You can come in late. Management does not care.”

“I won’t,” David says.

“Damn straight we will, thanks Olezhka,” Robbie says, throwing an arm around David’s shoulder, then immediately springing back at the look on Oleg’s face. “See you outside, Chaps,” he says, already walking away.

“Volkov,” Oleg scowls.

“I told him not to,” David says quickly.

“Fucking Volkov,” Oleg mutters, then ignores David, devoting full attention toward his socks.

“Volkie was not lying about grumpy Kurmazov,” Robbie says in a stage whisper when David catches up to him outside the room.

“I told you he doesn’t like being called that,” David says.

“Don’t worry, I’m never doing it again,” Robbie says. “My life just flashed before my fucking eyes there.”

“…Volkie?” David asks belatedly.

“Definitely rolls off the tongue better than Kirill,” Robbie says. Admittedly, the way he says Kirill doesn’t sound anything like it would from Kiro or Oleg, or even from someone like Dave, who has that scrubbed clean generic American media accent David associates with California, and, and more apropos to Dave, Southern Ontario. “I got the address to this place somewhere,” he adds.

“I know where it is,” David says. From the amount of times he’s been there, you’d think it was the only bar in Sunrise. Maybe it’s the only good one. David hasn’t paid too much attention to the Sunrise nightlife. 

Kiro’s already gotten a table when they arrive. It’s quiet, which is unsurprising considering it’s a Wednesday night, and there are a number of empty booths, but Kiro took the one closest to the door. David doesn’t know if that’s what was offered to him or that’s what he wanted, but he slips into the seat beside Kiro, back to the door, because he doesn’t want to spend the night signing autographs, even if it’s unlikely the bar’s going to get too much more business as the night goes on, let alone from a group interested in hockey.

“Hi,” Kiro says, pulling him into a hug.

“Volkie, I have to say I’m feeling neglected,” Robbie says.

“I am so sorry, my love,” Kiro says, then blows Robbie a kiss.

“You two have been talking, eh?” David asks. He supposes he never told Kiro to make gay jokes _with_ Robbie. David really needs to learn Vladislav’s system of specificity.

“Only about you,” Kiro says, accompanied by Robbie blowing Kiro and then David kisses, and David feels himself go red.

“Aw,” Kiro says. “Davidson, are you being shy? We only want to love you.”

“No,” David says.

“Yep,” Robbie says, weirdly flat. “Shy.”

David’s comforted to see Kiro send a look Robbie’s way, confirmation he isn’t imagining things, and Kiro glances over at David, trying to express something David can’t figure out and is distracted from regardless, because Robbie’s face goes dark like it only does in one situation.

David doesn’t even need to look to know Georgie just walked in the door. He should be concerned about that, not proud of it, but it’s kind of nice, knowing something about someone without being told. 

A hand lands on David’s shoulder and squeezes, and the only reason David doesn’t jump is because he figured Georgie was coming over, considering Robbie was serving a glare over David’s shoulder. “Birthday party?” Georgie asks. 

“What are you doing here,” Robbie says flatly.

“Meeting a friend for drinks,” Georgie says. “Is that not allowed?”

“Whatever,” Robbie mutters, then, louder, “Go wait somewhere else, bye.”

He throws a wave goodbye David can’t call anything but sarcastic, and Kiro looks over at David, raising an eyebrow. David shrugs back minutely. He thought Robbie and Georgie had been getting along a little better lately, but maybe he was wrong. Or maybe that’s just on team time or something. David can’t imagine that Quincy hasn’t spoken to them about it by now, and maybe he got them to declare a truce or something, at least in the locker room. He shouldn’t assume anything — he’s as wrong as often as he is right — but it’s not like he can ask, and he can’t help being curious. 

“Okay,” Georgie says, and goes to the bar. It’s close, close enough David can hear him order a drink, not the words but the low murmur of it. Robbie thankfully has his back to it, though, and that will hopefully be enough.

“Friend?” Kiro asks, completely ignoring the warning look David shoots him. David had mentioned the Robbie and Georgie situation to Kiro — not at length or anything, just that it was awkward. Also that Robbie refused to talk about it, so Kiro should know better than to bring it up. Unless Kiro didn’t realise that was Georgie, which seems unlikely, because Kiro’s smart about people and no one would have described that as a friendly conversation.

“Best friend,” Robbie says flatly. “Light of my fucking life, right there.”

“I could tell,” Kiro says, but thankfully changes the subject to a player on the Avalanche they both follow on twitter. Apparently he’s funny, at least that’s what David’s getting from the snickering. They could be making fun of him, David supposes, he’s not really paying attention, but that isn’t something Kiro’s likely to do, so they’re probably laughing with him.

David gets an email from Dave, checks it quickly to see if it’s important, but it’s a birthday message. Dave’s apparently working late. 

“—David?” Kiro says, and David looks up.

“Sorry,” he says. “What did you say?”

Whatever Kiro’s repeating, David doesn’t catch it, because Georgie’s friend just showed up. David maybe wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t Jake. He’s gotten his hair cut — David didn’t notice, before, which is unsurprising considering he was wearing a helmet — that hair style that Crane and Matthews and Heller have, that seems to be the growing standard. It looks good on him. Better on him. He looks — he looks kind of grown up, like David blinked and Jake started to look his age, maybe act it.

“David?” Kiro repeats.

“Did you—” David starts, looking at Kiro, then back to Georgie and Jake.

“No,” Kiro says, after following his glance. “Promise.”

“Okay,” David says. “Okay.”

“Hey, talk in full sentences, what am I missing?” Robbie asks, then turns and gets on one knee so he can look over the top of the booth. Which of course is the thing that catches Jake’s attention, and after a moment he meets David’s eye.

David swallows.

“We can—” Kiro starts, low, and stops when David shakes his head. 

“Free country, right?” David asks. “It’s not my bar.”

“Hey, the light of your life here too?” Robbie asks, and David hopes he doesn’t see the flinch David can’t suppress. 

Jake raises a hand, an echo of the wave before Christmas, and David raises one back. Georgie looks between Jake and David, says something that Jake responds to with a shake of the head. After a second Georgie’s walking over and Jake’s trailing behind him, so David imagines it was something about saying hello. He knows from experience it’s hard to say no to Georgie if he’s gotten an idea in his head. He’s insisted on paying for a few of David’s drinks after David demurred the first time, and nothing David can say — barring not wanting one, which Georgie respected — will shake him, not even when David pointed out how much more he made, which he was mortified to be saying even as it exited his mouth, wholly inappropriate even though their salaries are public record. 

David’s not particularly surprised Jake’s unable to say no. Jake’s mother joked the word wasn’t in his vocabulary, and while that was obviously an exaggeration, it had a seed of truth to it David couldn’t deny. Honestly, it’s a relief to know he’s like that with everyone, that David isn’t the exception, someone who makes Jake unlike himself.

Except, of course, when he does, like right now, Jake hanging back behind Georgie, who’s ignoring another vicious glare aimed at him by Robbie, looking awkward, shy. A mirror reflecting how David feels to an exact degree, and David doesn’t know if that should be a relief as well, seeing his own face reflected. Maybe it should be, but all it does is make him feel awful.

“Hi,” Jake says.

“Hi,” David says.

“Happy birthday,” Jake says.

David has no idea how he remembered. “Happy belated birthday,” he says.

Jake’s mouth tips up. “Thanks.”

“Hey,” Georgie says, “birthday drinks for the Capricorns! Since we all apparently know each other.”

“I really don’t—” David starts.

“Georgie—” Robbie says.

“I’m not—” Jake says.

“C’mon,” Georgie says. “First round’s on me.” Then, looking past David, “I don’t actually know you, sorry about that, I’m Georgie.”

“Of course you are,” Kiro says, then, “Kirill.”

“Awesome, nice to meet you,” Georgie says. “Mind if we scoot in?”

“Georgie—” Jake starts.

“Not at all,” Kiro says, and doesn’t look particularly repentant when he meets David’s eyes.

“Who the fuck knows that horoscope bullshit?” Robbie mutters.

“This Capricorn right here, trying to scam some free drinks,” Georgie says cheerfully, which doesn’t make sense since he just offered to pay for the first round. He sits beside David, which is definitely a better idea than sitting beside Robbie. Jake takes the spot beside Robbie, which should probably be a relief. Is a relief. It’s a tight fit nonetheless: they were given a booth that seats six, but there isn’t a lot of space, and David’s got Kiro’s elbow in his side, Georgie’s thigh pressed against his. David isn’t sure how he’d feel, sitting that close to Jake. Is flustered enough sitting that close to Georgie, and he isn’t —

It’s a relief. That’s what David should be feeling right now.

“So we getting shots?” Georgie asks.

“No,” David says, and looks over when Jake’s voice overlaps his. Jake’s mouth quirks up a bit, and David smiles back before looking over at Georgie because it’s easier.

“They have a good selection of draught here,” he says.

“Whatever you say, birthday boy,” Georgie says, flagging the waitress over, and when David looks over at Jake again, unable to resist the pull, Jake’s looking back.


End file.
